A New Life
by illuminata79
Summary: A look at Mick and Evelyn as they are settling into their life as a couple.
1. Too Many Secrets

_Like some infernal monster, still venomous in death, a war can go on killing people for a long time after it's all over.  
- __Nevil Shute, Requiem for a Wren_

This is what Evelyn finds to be very true when a few months after moving into her place, Mick is still troubled by his wartime experience and the ramifications of his injury and finds it rather hard to settle into this different kind of life. While she is more than happy to have him back, she is sometimes hard pressed not to take his behaviour personal, although she knows that some things simply need time.

If some aspects of this story appear familiar to some of the ladies who have been following Mick's path faithfully from the beginning: I have re-worked bits and pieces from my very early work into this more detailed account of Mick and Evelyn's first months together. I hope you don't mind my recycling of old ideas.

I found the lyrics of _Ghosts That We Knew _by Mumford & Sons quite fitting at this point of Mick and Evelyn's story when things can be quite difficult at times and their relationship is burdened by Mick's ghosts from the past.

_You saw my pain, washed out in the rain_  
_Broken glass, saw the blood run from my veins_  
_But you saw no fault no cracks in my heart_  
_And you knelt beside my hope torn apart_  
_But the ghosts that we knew will flicker from view_  
_And we'll live a long life_  
_So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light_  
_Cause oh they gave me such a fright_  
_But I will hold as long as you like_  
_Just promise me we'll be alright_

_So lead me back_  
_Turn south from that place_  
_And close my eyes to my recent disgrace_  
_Cause you know my call_  
_And we'll share my all_  
_And our children come, they will hear me roar_  
_So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light_  
_Cause oh they gave me such a fright_  
_But I will hold as long as you like_  
_Just promise me that we'll be alright_

* * *

„What's all this?" he inquired irritably, nodding at the tray on the bed. "Why aren't we having breakfast in the kitchen, as usual? I _can_ get out of bed and eat at the table just like normal people do, you know."

I set the cup I had been about to fill with freshly brewed coffee down on my nightstand, making more of a clatter than was called for.

"I just thought it would …", I began, forcing back angry tears.

"You just thought it would be so romantic, didn't you?" His eyes were cold green fire, full of spite and scorn. "It is _not. _I've had enough breakfast in bed to last a lifetime. _Two_ lifetimes, minimum. Have you got any idea how good it can feel to be able to actually get up in the morning and eat your breakfast sitting in a proper chair at a proper table?"

"OK, fine, I've got the message", I retorted sharply. "I'll go and take all of this back into the kitchen and we'll do everything the usual way. Sorry for trying something new."

I picked up the tray I had so lovingly arranged and carried it back down the hall, spreading things out on the kitchen table noisily.

Some days he could be extremely hard to be with, and this was apparently going to be another of them.

I had nursed some admittedly over-romantic images of a bright and sunny morning, my filmy white bedroom curtains billowing in a soft wind while we lounged cosily in my big bed, scattering crumbs all over the covers, trying not to spill our coffee, joking, laughing, feeling at ease, and he had wiped it all away with one of his scathing remarks that made me feel so dumb and unhelpful.

You never knew what might trigger one of those, how he might react to some perfectly harmless comment, some totally trivial situation or well-meant suggestion.

He hadn't exaggerated when he'd told me on New Year's Eve that I was going to have a grumpy invalid under my feet.

Of course, I did not quite agree with the "invalid" part – I hated the word for implying that a person was worthless just because they were missing a limb or suffered from an illness – but, good Lord, I could relate to the grumpiness.

I knew he didn't mean it. I knew he couldn't help it, and when I tried to put myself into his place, I had to concede that I had no idea how I would manage to bear a disability like his, inflicted on me out of the blue. I couldn't even begin to imagine how he must feel, my ever-active, independent, outdoorsy pearl diver, suddenly having to lead a truncated life full of limitations and constraints.

But still it hurt so damn much when he was like that.

On days like these, I never seemed to find the right tone to speak to him or the right thing to do. He would brush me off brusquely if I offered to help him, saying something like "Oh please, I'm not completely useless", then, five minutes later, he'd look daggers at me for failing to notice that he needed assistance with something he was about to do.

Once, I asked him what was wrong, and he snapped at me, "What's wrong? What's _wrong?_ I'll tell you what's wrong: _Everything!_ I'm a fucked-up cripple, I just sit around doing nothing, I haven't got a job and live at your expense and I've no goddamn idea if that's ever gonna change - and you seriously ask me what's wrong?"

Another time, he knocked over a glass on the kitchen table, water dripping on to the floor. Before I could get a rag, he was already down, trying to mop up the mess with a napkin, shakily balancing on his one knee, grabbing at the door handle of the fridge just quickly enough to keep himself from falling over, the puddle still there on the pale blue tiles.

I wanted to reach out my hand to help him get up, but I knew he'd bat it away like some irritating insect, so I just stood by and watched with a lump in my throat as he hurled the sopping napkin in the general direction of the sink before he dragged himself up into a standing position.

He stood with his back turned on me, leaning on the worktop for support, making an effort to breathe easy and to keep his posture rigid, but nothing could hide the telltale little twitch of his shoulder blades.

At that point, I couldn't just look on any more.

I got a dishrag to throw over the spill and soak up the water, then went over to lay a hand on his back and, helplessly searching for words, stupidly stated, "You're crying."

"Yes, I am _crying_", he said sarcastically. "Do you mind? Are men not allowed to cry? Must I remain stoic and brave as befits a soldier, no matter how screwed up the situation?"

If only he would let me get through to him, accept my attempts to comfort him.

I never ceased trying, but every time he snubbed me, it broke my heart all over again.

He had also been right on that enchanted New Year's Eve in that I wasn't fully aware of what I was getting myself into. I had not imagined it would be quite as difficult at times.

My sister, for her part, had seen fit to warn me about getting involved with a cripple.

"Are you really certain about this, Evelyn?" she had asked me at Christmas, when Aunt Maggie was having her after-lunch nap and we were washing up in the kitchen. "You'll be playing his nurse more than anything, believe me, and things will only get worse as he grows older. Someone to look after him, that's probably what he's after, not _love._ And I'll bet he hasn't got a penny to his name. Are you sure he's not just a freeloader who wants to live off you? Or that, next thing you know, he'll want a say in everything you do and you'll end up renouncing your social life completely to attend to his needs day and night?"

"Oh yes, my social life that is so incredibly exciting", I scoffed, furious at myself for having let my hair down at all at this stage when things were anything but clear between Mick and myself.

I should have known all I'd get would be a load of advice I had not asked for. Marjorie had always loved telling other people what to do.

"Sorry, Marge, there's obviously something you don't seem to get at all. Several things, really." I took a deep breath. "First of all, he's not some … some drooling bedridden geezer, you know. He's had a leg amputated after he was wounded in the war, which is an awful thing to happen, but it's not like he needs care twenty-four hours a day. Apart from the leg, he's in fine health for all I know, and perfectly capable of looking after himself. Second, it is _me_ who's trying to persuade _him _to come and live with me. He'd have been way too proud to come begging for shelter, as he'd probably put it. He would rather sleep under a bridge, missing leg and all, than ask me to take him in. And, put that in your pipe and smoke it, he's not some opportunist stranger_._ I'm doing this because I want to. Because I don't want to live without him and because I goddamn love him."

"Oh, how _utterly_ romantic!" Her voice was dripping with rude sarcasm now. "How do you know you _love_ him so much when you haven't seen him in – what? Two years? When all you had before that was some chance encounters on that island full of naked savages and a shag in a beach hut?"

I wanted to slap her smug face for the derisive tone she employed to desecrate the wonderful thing Mick and I had shared back then. I wanted to tell her to go to hell and bloody stay there.

Barely restraining myself, I said very coolly, "You can think whatever you want. It may have been a short time we had back then, but sometimes, Marge, sometimes you just _know._ It doesn't always take several years of _engagement" _– I put particular emphasis on the word, knowing full well that it would remind her of the only serious boyfriend she'd ever had, a bloke who'd broken off theirs after he'd kept her waiting for ages – "to realize somebody is the one."

She gasped for air, incredulous.

"Maybe you would see what I mean if you had met him", I added.

Or maybe she wouldn't. I had a feeling she and Mick would not get along, and I was suddenly glad he had declined my invitation to spend the holiday with us.

I had not spoken to my sister since, and never in a million years would I have admitted she was right.

For she wasn't.

Yes, this new kind of life was difficult, very much so sometimes.

There was such a lot I didn't know about him, so many secrets I felt he might never tell, so many experiences he might never be ready to share. He spoke almost as little of his childhood and youth as he talked about the war and the hospital.

I was loath to push him, but I did feel locked out of a large part of his life, and many a time I wished he would open up to me, at least occasionally, to help me understand him and all his needs and hopes and fears.

His mood swings hitting out of nowhere could be hard to cope with, but there were worse things than that, like those phases when he was physically present but not actually _there,_ when depression kept a tight grip on him and he retreated into his shell for hours, days even, hardly speaking, barely touching his food, brooding way too much.

Sometimes, mostly when the weather changed, his leg played up and tortured him with phantom pain. I got the impression that he bore physical discomfort a little more easily, but it was still tough to watch him suffer in silence, stubbornly refusing to complain, trying hard to let nobody see his trouble while the way he held himself and how he clamped his lips so tightly shut that they turned white around the edges spoke volumes.

But for all the distress and dejection, there were plenty of good things, too.

Simply having him back was so much more than I would have dared wish for, which made every day a little gift in itself.

The mere fact that he lived, that he was with me now, sufficed to make up for much of the frustration and all the tears shed in secrecy so he wouldn't see.

We had those wonderful mornings when he opened his eyes and smiled at me, his lovely crooked little smile that never quite managed to push all the sadness from his haunted face but made me feel so warm and tender and overflowing with love.

We had sunny days spent in the Royal Botanic Gardens, a place we both loved, and the occasional picnic lunch on a bench in the park near where we lived, and rainy afternoons when I'd make a pot of tea and we'd both make ourselves comfortable on the sofa with a book and a cuppa.

Gradually, I learned not to let his outbursts get to me too much, learned to weather those storms of desperate, destitute wrath, knowing he was not actually lashing out at me but at the cruel fate that had let him survive the war but claimed his leg and with it the absolute independence that had been his greatest treasure.

Gradually, he learned to tolerate a bit of closeness, although he was always very careful not to be seen fully naked, and all he'd let me do in bed was hold his hand or lay mine on his shoulder as we went to sleep. But at least he didn't wrap his quilt quite as firmly around himself to make sure I wouldn't accidentally brush his leg with nothing but the fabric of his pajamas between us, and sometimes he allowed me to cuddle up to his good side under the covers after we'd woken up in the morning.

But I found that I missed the physical aspects of love a lot more than I had expected, now that we were sharing quarters.

We had moved from chaste hugs and kisses on to more passionate embraces, but we never went all the way, and it never involved his getting undressed below the waist or my touching his leg.

I sensed that he was not ready yet and decided willy-nilly to take matters slowly there, but nevertheless the slightest gentle touch, the softest kiss made a desire flare up deep inside me that begged urgently to be quenched.

He didn't have to do more than run a finger along the back of my neck to have me shivering all over, the fleeting brush of his lips on my cheekbone had me tingling with an anticipation that I knew would be in vain once more.

Sometimes it simply killed me to be so close to him and yet so far apart in this respect.

If only I could find a way to convince him that he was still attractive to me, that I was not only pretending he was still able to arouse those feelings in me, that there was no need to hide anything from my view.

When he had first moved in, it had cut me to the bone to see all the little things that hinted at the terrible, permanent damage the war had done – most of all, the single shoe on the floor beside the bed, but also the ever-present crutches, the large vial of painkillers in the bathroom cabinet, doors in the apartment kept open so he'd not have to bother with the knobs before entering a room, and those slow halting steps where a confident stride used to be even on unknown terrain – but not once had I felt put off by his disfigurement.

In fact, I wished he'd be more candid about it, that he'd finally let me in on what he was hiding, break that big taboo between us, allow it to become a normal part of everyday life, but no matter how often I tried to make him see he was absolutely wrong there, he still seemed to believe it was out of pity or compassion or a sense of obligation that I had asked him to move in with me, that all we could have was maybe not entirely platonic love but certainly not the kind of intense intimacy we had known for such a short time back on the island.

I knew full well that this was nothing that could be forced. What was required most of all was time, and patience.

Alas, waiting patiently for something I could not influence had never been my strong suit. I had always wanted to make things happen, to speed them up, to see quick progress. Now I sometimes felt like a child who wishes for a magic wand to bring about change in the blink of an eye, particularly in moments like the breakfast episode.

He remained cranky all day long after that. All I got when I addressed him were monosyllabic, barked answers, so, eventually, I stopped speaking to him altogether and retreated into my study to sort my papers and begin with the preparations for my new job as a lecturer at the University of Sydney.

My first working day was just two weeks away, and I had not done much so far, but of course I couldn't think very clearly with the atmosphere so tense.

Having stared at a blank sheet for I didn't know how long, I threw down my pencil angrily and went to get myself a drink.

A gust of cool air and the familiar aroma of his cigarettes greeted me when I entered the kitchen.

Mick was leaning out the open window, elbows propped upon the sill, shoulders drawn up, blowing out a little cloud of smoke.

I didn't say anything, but he had noticed my coming in and gave me a weary look over his shoulder. There was no aggression in his eyes now, just a tired kind of melancholy.

Still smarting from the harsh way he'd treated me all day, I didn't react immediately, just poured myself some water and then stood with the glass in my hand, meeting his gaze.

It was him who spoke first.

He flicked his cigarette butt away and gingerly turned around, holding on to the windowsill for support, and said, "I behaved like a moron this morning. I'm … I'm sorry, Evelyn. I … know you just wanted to do something nice."

I set down the glass, quite surprised. He had never been one to apologize easily.

"And I know it's hard for you sometimes, living with a …"

"_Don't_ say it", I cut in, sharper than intended. "Don't call yourself all those dreadful names."

"Okay, fine, if that's what you want. But still … don't think I never see you cry. Don't think I never notice how you look at me and wish you'd got me back in one piece."

"I don't …"

"Yes, you do", he insisted softly. "'Course you do. Isn't it just natural to wish I hadn't come back a … like this?" He indicated his leg with a tiny resigned nod that was so much more eloquent than a million words and melted the last bit of resistance left within me from the day's strife.

I went and put my arms around him and rested my face against his chest, closing my eyes, too overwhelmed to even weep.

He rested his chin on the top of my head, and we held each other silently for a long while, until he gave a little suppressed groan and straightened up, pressing his fingers hard into the flesh at the base of his neck in an attempt to loosen up the cramped muscles there.

I told him to go and lie on the sofa, closed the window, washed my hands with warm water so they wouldn't be too chilly and went after him.

Using the crutches put a great strain on his upper torso in spite of his well-developed muscles, and massaging his ever-tense back and shoulders was among the very few things he would gladly ask me to do for him.

He had stretched out long, face down on the sofa, his shirt flung over the armrest, one hand kneading a tight knot right next to his left shoulder blade.

I bent over him, digging my fingers firmly into the hardened muscles, sometimes even employing my elbow to loosen up a particularly tense spot.

"You're getting really good at this", he muttered into the cushions.

"Thanks. But I think I'm going to switch to a different method now. My arms are getting tired. What do you think of this?" I tickled the curve of his spine very lightly, which made him shiver.

"Mmmm." He turned his face sideways and smiled luxuriantly.

Thus encouraged, I proceeded to kiss the nape of his neck, just below the hairline, trailing my lips along the taut round contours of his shoulder and down his side to where a new scar bore witness of something that had happened after we had parted, probably during the war. I drew a finger along the slender triangle of pearly white tissue, then brushed it very gently with my lips and made my way back up to his face for a kiss.

He responded instantly, his hand twining into my hair at the back of my head, his mouth eagerly meeting mine.

Still holding me close, he sat up, and I slipped onto the sofa next to him, our lips locking again.

At some point I pulled back for a moment, taking his face in both hands, just _looking._

What a beauty he was, more than ever to me, despite all the traces two hard wartime years had left.

His enigmatic green eyes appeared larger and his cheekbones much more pronounced in his leaner face, his features all the more chiselled and sharply intense.

Lines had begun to etch themselves into the smooth skin of his forehead and around the mouth and eyes, speaking of past pain and sorrow, and he had not regained much of the weight he had lost, but his month by the sea had brought back a lovely golden touch of suntan. His hair, thick and wavy as ever, had finally outgrown the all-too-neat army cut, sticking up in places and beginning to curl, which made him look a lot more like himself even with a good deal of grey around the temples.

He drew me closer for another kiss, his hand sliding from my shoulder to my breasts, cupping one of them through the thin cotton of the shirt I wore, his mouth playfully nuzzling my neck.

I was on fire, a desperate yearning pulsating deep within me, and let my fingers wander slowly down his side and along the waistband of his khakis. He did not stir but I felt him flinch ever so slightly.

Nevertheless, my hand moved a little further south to where his reaction to my caresses had become quite obvious, resting for a moment on the firm bulge straining against the fabric of his pants.

All my previous self-control crumbled, and I quickly undid his belt and was fumbling for the top button of his khakis when his hands swiftly swooped down to grab mine.

_"No!"_

The tormented, almost panicky undertone of his voice startled me even more than the sudden crushing grip of his hands.

I stared at him, astonished, shocked, and tried to tug my hands free.

Only then did he seem to realize that he was clutching them way too hard.

He let go with a mortified, almost appalled expression, repeating in a much smaller voice, "I'm sorry … but please … don't. Don't … make me. I'm not sure if I'm still … able to … do that."

"But …"

"I know it looked as if … it even felt like I wanted …" He closed his eyes for a second and, weakly rubbing his forehead, murmured hoarsely, "I can't, Evelyn. Heaven knows I wish it wasn't so, but I really can't."

I watched with a bleeding heart and stinging eyes as he did up his belt again and hastily threw on his shirt, buttoning it up with a determination that made it feel like a door being shut in my face.

With a sinking feeling, I realized that what I'd done had been terribly beside the point.

I should have known better than to go on when I first sensed a certain reluctance on his part. Instead, I had barged right into the minefield in my rush of desire, egged on by his body's treacherous signals, thinking he'd go along if I was resolute enough.

While he did not deign to look at me, he hadn't moved farther away from me either. He was sitting in exactly the same place as before, with just a few inches of space between us.

Inches that felt like miles now, as he kept his face turned the other way purposefully, one hand resting on his mangled leg in a protective manner.

I sat motionless, too, but my mind was racing.

What had I done that warranted such a fierce reaction? What exactly had it been that made him freak out like that?

Was it something he didn't want me to see by any means? Had the detonation or whatever it was that had cost him his leg done vaster damage and mutilation than I had assumed, or were there some physical impediments, due to some kind of disease or injury, that prevented a normal sex life? It had certainly felt like everything was in fine working order down there, but who knew what he might be hiding.

Or was it all in his mind? Had I touched on some horrifying memory, done something that reminded him of some traumatic moment?

Again, I wished I knew so much more about him, about what he had been through in the war, about the extent of his injuries and about the things he had seen happening.

How was I supposed to help him heal when I had no clue what his wounds were, neither those of the body nor those of the soul?

_Would I get another chance at helping him at all?_

A leaden cold fear took hold that I had messed it all up in a short unbridled outburst of passion, overriding his apparent unease single-handedly, and that this was the end of it all.

I was so terribly afraid I had destroyed the trust and closeness we had rebuilt in the last weeks.

Again, I longed to touch him, even more than before if that was possible, but there was no lust, no carnal appetite now, only the ardent wish to bridge this deep rift that had suddenly opened.

His back was still half turned on me, his jaw set tightly, pushed forward just the smallest fraction in that forbidding way he had.

He didn't acknowledge my presence in the least, and I didn't dare reach out for him, feeling utterly alone right there beside him.

A wave of self-pity finally washed away all restraint, and I dissolved into bitter tears, which I tried to keep silent at first, but the fist I pressed against my mouth could not muffle the desperate ragged sob that broke from my throat, followed by another, and then another.

But the crying did nothing to ease my misery. My whole body still seemed to be thrumming with a tension that made my ears ring and my heart pound out a merciless march in my chest, leaving me weak and quivery.

I wrapped my arms around myself without even trying to stem the flow of tears. I didn't have the strength to wipe my eyes or blow my nose.

I was beyond caring. I just cried.

And then, there it was, his cautious, tentative hand on my back, the gentlest touch between the shoulder blades.

I cried all the harder for it.

His arm came around my waist, pulling me closer, his cold hands cradling my head to his chest. The warm pressure of his lips on my forehead triggered another bout of violent sobbing.

I simply couldn't stop, gasping for air in between like a young child who has worn herself out in a fit of tears, and he simply held me, let me bury my puffy face in his shirt, stroking my back, patiently waiting until it was over.

"I'm so sorry about … what happened", he said when I sat up again, dabbing at my eyes with the handkerchief he'd produced from his pocket. "You must have thought I'd lost my mind."

"I …"

"Don't say anything now. I know I gave you quite a fright. I gave _myself_ quite a fright. It wasn't your fault. I sort of panicked, I guess, because I … don't think I can … well, you know what I mean."

"But … that's not …"

"See, Evelyn, I love you, very much so, but if you find you can't live with ... what I am now, I won't blame you. You're not obliged to me in any way, and I'd understand if you found it unbearable after all to be stuck with a crippled nothing of a man who can't even satisfy you in bed any more." He swallowed hard and said in a thick voice, "You're young, you're beautiful, and you're pretty damn smart, and you've got all of your life still ahead of you. You don't have to stick around if you think you can't stand it in the long run. I can manage on my own, you know."

"Oh yes, Mick, I'm sure you can."

It sounded way more sarcastic than it was supposed to, but his defeatism simply drove me up the wall, so I continued, only slightly less biting, "Don't you think I'd have happily abandoned you if you really were so useless and off-putting as you make it sound?"

I realized I was all but shouting and toned down my voice a bit as I went on, "Can't you see I'm with you because I _want_ to and because I _love_ you? I don't care if you've got one leg or two or none at all as long as you're _there_, and I'm pretty sure we'll work out a lot of things given enough time. I won't be running away if the going gets tough. All I want is for you to trust me and to _talk_ to me and to believe me when I say I want you, just the way you are! If you feel you can't … do certain things just yet, well then, I promise I will wait until you think you're ready to, whenever that is. There's only one thing I couldn't possibly bear, and that is a life without you!" I sniffed loudly to stifle another sob and wiped at my nose with the back of my hand in a very unladylike way.

He looked up at me, utterly surprised, and remained silent for a thoughtful minute until his mouth curved into the tiniest hint of a smile.

"Well, if you are so sure you want to stay … I'm not likely to run away any time soon, am I?"

"No, I don't think you are." I put my hand on his knee and added, "And that's just as well."


	2. Revelations

Evelyn is trying to learn to be patient, to wait for things to develop at a pace that Mick, too, will be comfortable with. _Not with Haste,_ as the beautiful song by Mumford & Sons puts it.

_Your eyes they tie me down so hard_  
_I'll never learn to put up a guard _  
_So keep my love, my candle bright _  
_Learn me hard, oh learn me right _

_This ain't no sham _  
_I am what I am _

_Though I may speak some tongue of old _  
_Or even spit out some holy word _  
_I have no strength from which to speak _  
_When you sit me down, and see I'm weak _

_We will run and scream _  
_You will dance with me _  
_They'll fulfill our dreams and we'll be free _  
_And we will be who we are _  
_And they'll heal our scars _  
_Sadness will be far away _

_So as we walked through fields of green _  
_Was the fairest sun I'd ever seen _  
_And I was broke, I was on my knees _  
_And you said yes as I said please _

_This ain't no sham _  
_I am what I am _  
_I leave no time _  
_For a cynic's mind _

_We will run and scream _  
_You will dance with me _  
_Fulfill our dreams and we'll be free _  
_We will be who we are _  
_And they'll heal our scars _  
_Sadness will be far away _

_Do not let my fickle flesh go to waste _  
_As it keeps my heart and soul in its place _  
_And I will love with urgency but not with haste_

* * *

We didn't mention the incident again during the following days. What slight friction remained between us slowly abated as we went about our little daily rituals as usual. I got on well with preparing my first lectures, and we took advantage of the beautiful autumn weather and spent as much time outside as we could.

Mick needed those breaths of fresh air almost as much as he needed food and drink. Whenever he was forced to stay inside because the weather was bad, he grew grouchy and morose, whereas nothing served to brighten his mood like one of those perfect days when autumn feels like an extended summer enhanced by splendidly coloured foliage. And if he ever allowed me to catch a tiny glimpse of what was going on behind that high forehead of his, it was on a walk in the park or along the beach.

As we strolled through the botanical gardens once again on a particularly mild early-April afternoon, he was exceptionally talkative, telling me a few adventurous tales about his seafaring days with just the smallest tinge of regret that they were over.

Outside the exit of the gardens, an old man was playing a plangent Irish ballad on his fiddle.

When we passed him, Mick said, "Funny, it feels like I've seen him before. There was an old man just like him, in the same spot, playing a song just like this one, when I first came here back in '38."

"You've been in Sydney before?" I was surprised, although I knew that he'd been virtually all around the globe.

"Yup. In fact, I spent almost two months here. Took a little time-out from the shipping and waited for my shoulder to mend." At my questioning look, he explained, "Well, I suppose I've never told you about that. There was a time when I was running a bit wild, and, inevitably, I got hurt one day. Separated my shoulder in a drunken brawl on deck." He grinned a little sheepishly.

I tried to imagine him as a young sailor, drinking hard and acting out, but failed. Yet another facet of his personality, another part of his life that I knew nothing of.

I wondered if the fight had been about a woman. He never spoke of previous relationships, but although I somehow doubted that he had been the kind to have a girl in every port, surely there must have been someone in his life before me.

By now, I knew better than to pry, hoping that he would tell me when he felt the time was right.

Instead, I asked some innocuous questions about that first stay in Sydney, and he related that it had been in a bar by the harbour that he'd met the man who had finally taken him to the Trobriands.

"Isn't it amazing how things come full circle sometimes?" I said. "And just imagine, I might have walked past you somewhere downtown without knowing."

"Maybe. But you don't recall a long-haired sailor with his arm in a sling, do you?" He laughed. "Anyway, what's more important is that you're here with me now." He stopped to kiss me.

We decided to eat out that night, at the pub we frequented regularly after a day out. It was a pleasantly shabby little place not far from my apartment. Tony, the potbellied owner, knew us by now and beamed at us when we came in, gesturing at Mick's favourite table by the window.

With the crutches deposited inconspicuously in the corner, half hidden by the green curtains, his tanned arms peeking out of rolled-up shirtsleeves and an animated sparkle in his eyes from a fine day in the Gardens, he looked very much his old self, and my heart swelled with happiness that he seemed to be making good progress out of his dark valley at long last.

We had a few pints along with a hearty meal and walked the short distance home rather late, in high spirits, me a little tipsy, too.

Mick yawned as I unlocked the front door. "It's been a fantastic day, but I'm pretty knackered. I'm going to bed, if you don't mind."

I didn't mind at all. I wasn't used to drinking so much and felt pleasantly drowsy myself.

While he went to the bathroom to get ready for bed, I opened the windows in the bedroom and in my study to let some fresh air circulate through the hot and muggy apartment.

I had made a habit of reading a few pages in my study while Mick was going about his evening routine and was leafing idly through some anthropology journals when a loud thunderclap made me jump.

There had been some faint rumbling in the distance for a while, which I had ignored, but now the tree outside my window swayed with a sudden gale as a dazzling fork of lightning split the skies, and no two minutes later, a heavy curtain of rain all but obscured the tree from view. I jumped up to shut the window and hurried over into the bedroom to do the same there.

I froze the moment I flung open the door.

Mick was sitting on the edge of the bed with only his undies on.

The second he noticed me, he hastily threw the shirt he'd just taken off over his lap.

It saddened me that he still felt the need to cover himself up when I was around. How long did he want to go on hiding his leg from me?

Without a word, I strode over to close the window, then went back to the other side of the bed to sit next to him.

I felt him stiffen as I laid my hand on his right leg, just below the hip.

"Don't you think it's time I saw it?" I asked calmly.

He didn't answer, but his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

"I know how you feel about it, but you can't keep it from me forever. And don't think I can't stomach looking. I can stomach quite a lot of things, and probably it's not half as bad as you think it is."

He pursed his lips, scrunching the hem of the shirt between his fingers. "It's not … disgusting or revolting or anything", he finally said. "What's bad about it is not what's there but what's … missing." He paused and took a deep breath. "But I guess you're right and there's no harm in looking. You already know you've hitched up with half a man, so …"

"Don't give me that rubbish again", I said rather brusquely and went on a little softer, "Whatever it looks like, it won't make me love you any less. I love this …" - I brushed the scar through his eyebrow – "… and this …" – I kissed the one above his mouth – "and this one, too." I touched the cut in his side. "It's all part of who you are. So what makes you think I won't love this?" My hand returned to the top of his thigh, feeling the warmth of his skin through the lightweight cotton of the shirt.

He hesitated, and despite what he'd said earlier, I suddenly had some very vivid images of horribly mauled flesh in my mind, of ragged wounds and burned skin.

When he lifted the shirt to reveal what was left of his right leg, I was almost relieved to see that it looked perfectly normal except for the fact that it ended bluntly mid-thigh. The sight was disturbing, but not because it was gross or repulsive but because I had known this limb when it was still whole, when he had used it, unthinkingly, as he walked and ran and swam and dived and carried heavy loads from the supply ship.

I could still see him in my mind's eye, carelessly balancing a crate or bundle on one shoulder, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Sitting cross-legged in the sand with a quiet, pensive expression on his face, opening a pearl shell. Scratching his knee unconsciously, as he often did. Teaching me to dance.

I swallowed hard as I surveyed the long scar across the stump that had already begun to fade to a pale pink line, while another, newer, shorter incision that ran parallel to it was still quite red. That must be from the second surgery he had briefly mentioned back at my hotel room in Cleveland.

It had come as a bit of a shock after all to actually see it_,_ but I did not avert my eyes nor said a word while I was taking in this painful souvenir of a battle I knew nothing about.

He had never elaborated on how it had happened. Some grenade or mine exploding too close to him, I supposed, ripping skin and bones and muscle to irreparable shreds so that the surgeon at the field hospital or wherever they had taken him would have had no choice but to make a clean cut and remove it all to maintain a chance at survival.

The thought of my beloved beautiful man lying helpless, torn and bleeding in the dust of some foreign battlefield made me almost sick, and I guess I must have cringed in spite of myself, for he said quietly, "You don't need to stare at it forever. I know it takes some getting used to. Sometimes I doubt _I_ ever will."

I reached out and laid my hand on his bare thigh with cautious determination, watching his face, somewhat guardedly.

He appeared quite calm and a little resigned. His usual defensive posture was gone.

I went on to run my fingertip along the bigger scar, very lightly.

His smile was a tad shaky as I searched his face again, but when I asked wordlessly for permission, he let me cup my fingers around the scarred flesh and put his large hand over mine in affirmation.

"Will you tell me now how you … got that?"

He gave me a matter-of-fact, laconic account of how he had stopped an enemy bullet as he tried to carry a wounded comrade to safety and how things had appeared rather harmless at first.

"Doc said I'd been lucky. It went cleanly through the muscle just above the knee, didn't even wreck the joint. Should have healed without leaving much of a trace, nothing worse than a little limp at first and later just a bit of an ache when the weather changed. And then I got that stupid infection." He gave a little weary shrug. "It began to hurt like hell again when I'd been in the hospital for a couple of weeks, and it started swelling up real bad. At some point it all became too much and I simply passed out. When I woke up, they told me they were awfully sorry but they'd had to … take it off when my fever wouldn't go down for too long, otherwise I'd have kicked the bucket." He shrugged again. "Most of the time, I couldn't help thinking I'd have preferred the latter option."

I shuddered at the notion, but of course it was what he would have felt.

How utterly ironic to get away with minor wounding in combat only to lose the leg to an infection contracted at the hospital.

What a nightmarish awakening, coming around to the shattering realization that his life would never, never be the same again.

"I'm glad you didn't … kick the bucket", I said in a quavering tone.

"Me too … now." He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it gently. "I may still be missing that leg, but at least I'm not missing you any more."

I smiled, leaning my head against his shoulder for a silent minute before I slowly said, "This may be an awkward question, and I'm sorry if it is a dumb thing to ask, but why didn't they give you a … a wooden leg or something to … compensate the … the loss?"

"Oh, they did. I was just getting good with it when I started having this horrible pain whenever I put a bit of weight on the … on it. They found a small bone splinter was the culprit and removed it – that was the additional operation I told you about. I was supposed to take up rehab measures again after it had healed, at some specialized amputee centre they'd set up stateside, somewhere close to the army base where I was scheduled to work. You know I should have shipped out soon after your lecture, but of course I asked to be discharged instead. They didn't quite get why I should pass up the chance at excellent treatment and a secure job, but I told them I had my reasons and I could always see some specialist over here privately. After you'd insisted so much on having me stay with you, I wasn't gonna go away again, and to hell with the army."

"Did you?" I asked curiously.

"What?"

"See someone. You never said anything …"

"While I was still at Mrs. Cunningham's, I got an appointment with some specialist in Brisbane who was allegedly the best in his field, but he really did nothing to help me. He didn't give me any hope, said that I'd better make my peace with the crutches, for I was going to need them for the rest of my life. I don't remember the reasons he gave in his fancy doctor speak, but I did get the message that apparently no more than twenty-five per cent of people who lose a leg above the knee ever learn to walk properly with an artificial limb at all, and only if they begin training very quickly after surgery, not as late as I did. He basically told me it wasn't even worth trying in my case. That's why I never mentioned it."

"Why do you heed such pessimist crap?" I demanded heatedly. "Why didn't he just tell you to give it a go? I'm sure there must be a way to …"

"I don't know. Maybe. But let's not discuss that now, love." He squeezed my shoulder and suppressed a yawn. "I'm really dog tired, and I'd rather turn in now."

I wanted to protest but thought better of it. He had already shared a lot more with me tonight than I would have hoped for.

* * *

When I returned from a trip to the bathroom, he had gone to bed and switched off the light, but a belated flash of lightning illuminated the room as I slipped between the sheets.

With an affectionate glance at his beautiful profile, I lay down to curl up into my usual sleeping position. I knew he was not sleeping yet despite his closed eyes and regular breathing, but I sensed he wouldn't want to talk any more tonight. It must have been an immense effort for him to speak so frankly of so many things we had never touched upon before.

All the bigger was my surprise when I felt him stir and, for the first time, reach out to pull me over to his side of the bed.

I fell asleep with his arm around me, moulded against his body, and when I awoke in the hazy morning light, he was still lying right beside me, propped up on one elbow to bend over me, stroking my bare shoulder.

I smiled lazily and gave a little purr of pleasure, turning my face up towards him with my eyes still closed.

"Oh, someone's awake there", he whispered in a gravelly voice that sent a delightful shiver down my back. His long eyelashes tickled my cheek as he leaned in for a good-morning peck on the cheek and laid a path of fluttery little kisses down my chin and throat, stopping at the lace-trimmed neckline of my nightie.

Warm excitement prickled through me. I ran my fingers through his thick hair, playfully tilted his face back up to mine and wrapped my arms around his neck, our mouths melting in a long fervent kiss.

Shifting his weight to get even closer, he lost his balance and tumbled on top of me, apologizing self-consciously.

I laughed his concern away. "Don't worry. I don't get crushed that easily. Actually, I quite like this." I followed the curves of his pectorals with my index finger, circled his nipples, my teeth playfully nipping at one of them.

The particular scent of him was still there, unchanged, and I inhaled it deeply.

And could there really be a faint taste of salt on my lips or was that an illusion?

He plucked at a strap of my ivory chemise, wanting to get me out of it, and chuckled to himself when he realized he'd have to roll off me first, which did the next instant. Unhurriedly, he peeled the thin garment away from me, tossed it aside, then lay back on his elbow to study me.

His hand made its tender way from my shoulder to my wrist and back up along the sensitive inside of my arm before it settled on my breast, a thumb flicking lightly at the nipple.

"You're so incredibly beautiful", he said in a low husky voice.

"So are you, Mick. My love. So are you."

The look in his eyes told me that, for once, he believed me. There was nothing of the wariness that so often crept into his gaze, always ready to detect a well-meant lie or a hollowly cheery phrase, or of the regretful poignancy his eyes had never entirely lost since that day on the platform.

There was only love, and something I had not seen in him since the one night of passion we had shared in the radio hut.

Desire.

His mouth came down on mine for another hungry kiss, and as he pressed himself tightly against me, I felt the push of something solid further down. I knew even before he paused to take off his pajama bottoms that, this time, the signals his body was sending were not false.

We took our sweet time to explore and rediscover each other's bodies fully, dropping out of measurable time, gladly pushing life's cares and woes aside to live in this very moment.

I could not have said if it was minutes or hours or half a day we spent between the sheets, or sometimes on top of them.

All there was for me, all that counted, was Mick.

His eyes of ever-changing green, the straight long ridge of his nose, his smooth bronzed skin, the drift of fine dark hair on his chest.

The sensual curve of his mouth, his lips on mine, now soft and subtle, now demanding and greedy.

His beautiful hands, strong yet sensitive, long slender fingers that knew precisely where to touch, to tease, to tickle and caress, wandering deftly, tenderly all over my body until I squirmed with pent-up craving.

My nails clawing into his firmly rounded backside as the tension mounted and I guided him into my innermost core, his excited breath in my ear as we settled into a rhythm, moving in harmonious unison towards a climax that rippled through me from head to toe in sweeping waves and made me cry out inarticulately.

His head of unruly black wavelets, heavy on my chest after he, too, had reached the peak of passion with a small blissful moan and a tremendous shudder running through his body.

Now he lay very still beside me, chest heaving, heart pounding, a languorous smile setting his face aglow.

"So I guess I was wrong", he said after a while.

I frowned at him questioningly.

"When I said I couldn't do this any more." He placed a lazy kiss on my forehead. "You've just proved me wrong in the most amazing way."

"My pleasure, Mister." I smiled gleefully to myself. "I'd be only too happy to prove you wrong again."

"I'm afraid you'll have to", he said with a wicked little-boy grin. "Later, that is. For now, you've quite worn me out, weak old cripple that I am."

Normally, I'd have protested against his choice of words, but for the first time, I didn't mind his sarcastic brand of self-deprecation – because, for the first time, there was no bitterness in his words, only a hint of his wry dark humour.

"I'd rather say you've worn _me_ out, Mr. Carpenter", I said instead, snuggling up to him, my head coming to rest in the crook of his arm, just the way we had lain what seemed like half a life ago, in a rough palm-leaf hut in a tropical island, a crackling radio in the corner and the vague menace of Japanese ships in the distance.

Finally, against all odds, we had come full circle from there.


End file.
